Ay, Not fairest in my art,
ay, not owning the decent
well-made clothes,
behind the foundation,
hiding acne,
ay, not having a perfect
portrait of a countenance,
and an ideal figure; love, my flaw,
ay, not being fair enough for it as
time has ravaged me and offered
grief.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem